Burpees: Why am I Doing This?
September 22, 2017 In Health & Nutrition No Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

 

I am constantly thinking about what needs to be done; how to stay one step ahead in my day so as not to be swallowed whole. My planner sits open with beautiful blank pages waiting to help me organize my thoughts into actionable tasks. The problem is, I am fearful of messing up those beautiful pages. My handwriting has to be perfect so it is pleasing when I look at it…a work of art. I don’t want to brain-dump on these pages…maybe I can find some scratch paper?  I end up keeping the thoughts to myself in my already cluttered mind so as not to mar the page. I think about how to best be efficient with my time instead of actually being efficient with my time. I hypothesize, theorize, and philosophize about my day.  The time spent in my head ends up hindering me from accomplishing what I want to.  Critical thinking is a good thing but what is all that thinking good for if it produces nothing? I am in desperate need of a little less (mental) talk and a lot more action. Exercise is the answer to quiet my perpetually running mind.

**

Burpees. That infernal exercise that makes me look like a complete imbecile. The fitness model in the book I reference begins in a perfect push-up position: legs, back, and head in one long lean line. She hops effortlessly bringing her feet forward to land outside of her hands then shoots high into the air like a rocket. Back down again, hands to the floor and hops her feet back to the starting point. Bing. Bang. Boom. She makes it look so easy. I start with good form but as I continue, my push-up resembles more of a mountain shape, my rear end inching higher and higher like a periscope searching for ally ships come to rescue. Heaving and panting, I count reps with each squeak of my sneakers against the hardwood floor.

When will this be over!

Why am I doing this?

I put myself through this exercise a couple times a week, motivated partly out of vanity. I would like to look like this fitness model, to execute this exercise with consistently good form, and demonstrate my strength and agility. Surprisingly though, I have realized that I look forward to a workout, not for the vanity, but because when I do something physical with my body, it offers my brain a chance to shut off.

When I exercise, it is time for my mind to listen and not do the talking. I tune in to how my body is feeling and listen to what is physically challenging and what isn’t as hard today as it was yesterday. Stretching out a sore muscle and gently breathing deeper into the discomfort is a way of allowing my body to be acknowledged for the under-appreciated things it does every day.  My muscles seem to be thankful for the opportunity to work. My lungs are grateful to do their job of breathing in and out. It feels good to have blood pumping through my veins, and each drop of sweat is a hard earned nugget of euphoria; valuable because it is rare in my days filled with giving my all to my young family.

When my mind begins to reel off course and I begin to think way too much about the order in which I should shower, do laundry, write a grocery list, and the like, moving my body is often the missing component needed to restore balance to my well being.

I exercise to clear the mental fog and break up the cycle of overthinking everything.  Incidentally, I have found that when I offer my mind this kind of break each day, I end up having some of my best ideas. Like finding a dollar bill in the pocket of a pair of jeans I hadn’t worn (or washed) for a while, these good ideas are given to me without me having to search or strive hard to find them. Just as a passenger in a car gets to relax and take in the scenery while the driver remains alert to events unfolding on the road, my brain enjoys being the passenger instead of white-knuckling the steering wheel of decision making all the time. When my brain rests, creative thought comes bubbling up. That makes me happy because I thrive on creativity.

I love that this very physical practice fuels my creative life.

Establishing the habit of doing something physical every day helps me to be a better mother. I give my children a positive example of prioritizing a healthy lifestyle even though I may look silly and sort of pathetic as I do it. Knowing I am helping to instill in them healthy habits for their lifetime pushes me to work harder–both figuratively and literally–as they enjoy handing me heavier weights during my workouts. “Now do it again with this weight, Mom…it’s heavier!” You got it, Coach.  

So I lace up my sneakers every day. I’ve determined it is worthwhile for me to put up with looking like a dork with a periscope booty. I keep showing up for these workouts that help to center me and bring every last cent of determination to let my mind rest and allow my body to take control and move. Tomorrow I will be capable of more because of what I have struggled through today. I am stronger today than I was yesterday. Burpees, you bloody beasts, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Jennifer Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a baby girl).  She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom.  She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food and lots of play indoors and out.  She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home and you can also find her on Instagram.


When Pregnancy Isn’t the Plan (Part 1)
September 20, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth 2 Comments

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

It was the spring semester of 2002. I was finishing my junior year of college at a notoriously hippie-dippy party school in the mountains of North Carolina. At 21 years old, I’d spent years looking for something to numb the hurt of a messy and damaging childhood. Even though I’d grown up in the church with a mama who loved me well, I couldn’t escape the adverse effects of my family falling apart when I was in middle school. My heart was like a stew with meaty chunks of trauma and four varieties of immaturity floating in a soup of survival mode. College life introduced me to the flavor of drugs, drinking, and attention from men as everything came to a boil.

In the sunshine of a crisp April morning in the Appalachians, I smoked my last cigarette. I knew it was my last cigarette because I knew I was pregnant and once I took a test, that was it. I’d been in denial for weeks, convinced it was only PMS. I couldn’t remember my last period, but it seemed long overdue. My boobs were so huge and sensitive that putting on a bra was a production of wincing and moaning. As I looked at the evidence, acceptance set in. A test seemed like a necessary formality, so I walked across the highway to the drug store and bought a pregnancy test. I played it cool with the clerk. I told her the kit was for a friend—that she was too embarrassed to come in and buy it herself.

When I got home I peed on the stick and then couldn’t bring myself to look at it for nearly 20 minutes. My roommate was asleep in the next room, but once I got up the nerve to turn the thing over, she was startled awake by a shrieking F-bomb. “What!? What’s the matter?!” She stumbled into the room, brushing the hair back from her sleepy face. I threw the stick on the floor and started crying, “No! No, no, no, no, no!” She hugged me and didn’t say much. What was there to say?

I called my older sister to get her advice on how to tell our mom. She told me to come to her house in another town. She said she’d take me home to Charlotte the next morning and we’d tell our mother together. That evening my sister and her husband made sure I knew my “options”. I told them that my options were parenting or adoption. End of discussion.

“Just hear us out. You’re only 21. You have your whole life ahead of you. You have to be sure about this.” As I listened to them talk me through the reality of my situation and tell me that this could all be over if I wanted it to be, I sobbed pleaded with God for answers. For a split second, I did just want it to all go away. As quickly as the thought entered my mind, I became nauseous with indignation. Abortion was NOT an option.

“I’m having this baby.”

The drive to my mother’s the next morning felt eternal. At first, I was completely stoic. We were almost to Charlotte when the tears started flowing. I couldn’t stop crying. As we got closer to home, my sister called our mother.

“I’m bringing Tia to the house. Can you meet us there?”

My mom sped home from work at 11:00 am on a Tuesday. She came rushing in the door and the instant she laid eyes on my tear-stained face, she knew.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you, Sweetie?” All I could do was sob in her arms. “It’s okay, baby. We’re going to take care of this. Everything is going to be great, you’ll see.”

She reassured me until we both fell into bed, emotionally exhausted.

After finishing the last few weeks of the semester, I moved back home with my mom where I encountered a loving reception from the Church I’d grown up in. One special friend of my mom’s, who had known me since I was nine years old, gave me a card that said, “Be happy, Tia. Your baby is already loved.” I think that card was from Jesus himself. The words wrapped me in acceptance. Knowing her stance, and hearing words of support from other families in the church took the sting out of the humiliation of my growing bump that lacked the legitimizing left-hand accessory.

For a few weeks, I talked and prayed through whether or not I would parent the baby. My gut had told me I’d parent this child from the moment I knew I was carrying. The catch was how I would be able to support myself and a baby without any involvement from the father. After some discussions with family friends, I decided to go to nursing school. Nursing had always been an option and my mom had always encouraged me to pursue it. Until that moment I’d never had the motivation or incentive to put in the hard work. Now it was the secure career path that provided options for shift work that would keep child care simple as long as I lived with my mother.

While I awaited acceptance into a clinical program, I got started knocking out the few prerequisites I lacked. My due date fell over Thanksgiving weekend, so I negotiated with my professors to be allowed take my exams early. I wanted to be finished before I delivered. Little did I know, my baby girl would not arrive until December 12th! By the time she arrived, Thanksgiving was long past and Christmas was coming quickly.

That time of waiting was incredibly sweet as I imagined poor Mary, in my condition, riding on a donkey. Just… ouch! Each morning as I sat in my rocking chair reading and praying, I began to understand the anticipation of Emmanuel like never before. The thrill of Hope took hold in my heart and I knew that we were going to be alright.

(More of Tia’s story will be shared in October. Stay tuned!)

Tia McNelly lives in North Carolina with her husband and two daughters. Her little piece of the internet can be found at tiamcnelly.com where she blogs. Tia is also the featured speaker at Collected workshops. These events empower communities of women all over the world to walk in the fullness of their identity with purpose and passion. With a background in maternity nursing and non-profit management, Tia is honored to have a seat on the board of Flourish Kenya, a non-profit organization that prevents and supports unplanned adolescent pregnancy in rural Kenya. (photo by http://allisonkeel.com/)


When You’re Not Sure If You Like Your Kids (Guest Post)
September 19, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Childhood 1 Comment

Today, we are sharing an excerpt of a guest post Kindred Mom founder Emily Allen is sharing over on An Invitation to Dream Big, hosted by Amber Salhus. Please visit there to read the complete post!

 

I stood in the back of a women’s conference session with six-month old baby (my first) on my hip. A content, but increasingly active baby, I swayed with her and nibbled the side of her neck every few minutes so she’d light up and giggle at me, batting at me with her chubby hands. A few feet away, an older woman whom I greatly respect, who has always been warm and encouraging whispered to me, “Enjoy her now while she is little and sweet. Before you know it, she will be driving you up the wall, and you might not even like her.”

I nearly gasped. How dare she say such a thing? I smiled awkwardly and offered a courtesy laugh, but I could not fathom such a day would come when I would be anything but smitten with this darling little curly-haired creature and absolutely everything she did. I was in the honeymoon phase of mothering; a new mom just beyond the challenging newborn days (my baby slept mostly through the night by this point), but still quite unaware of how demanding parenting becomes as a child grows. Five more babies came after her, and as each of them reached new milestones, so arrived new perspective.

That brief conversation was eleven years ago. At the time, I was appalled by her words, but in the years since, I have thought of that woman’s comment–most often in moments of heightened parenting challenges–and I confess it is true. There are times I really don’t like my kids….

Read the rest of this essay on Amber’s blog…

 

 

The Kindred Mom Vision Team wants to encourage you in your motherhood journey. For a while now, we have wanted to create something useful to share with you that might really provide practical helps for the tough days of motherhood. That dream has now become a reality!

We have created a quick resource guide titled Manage the Mayhem of Motherhood: 52 Ideas to Help You Flourish, and you can get your copy today! We are so grateful for your support of Kindred Mom and hope this guide is just the encouragement you need.

This guide gives specific suggestions regarding the most common struggles for moms in the trenches, and we think you’ll find it is helpful, inspiring, and encouraging. Get your copy today!

 Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and podcast and is passionate about helping moms flourish in motherhood. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at lightandloveliness.com. She invites you to connect with the Kindred Mom community on Instagram or Facebook.


Acceptance (Childhood Cancer Awareness)
September 18, 2017 In Health & Nutrition Tender Topics No Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

 

On March 30, 2012,  Caden (my first born) was diagnosed with cancer at three years old.  Pediatric oncologists explained that he had an aggressive form of childhood cancer: stage IV, high risk neuroblastoma, with a five year survival rate of less than 50%.  Neuroblasts are embryonic cells that develop into nerves, and in my baby boy, it may have been a single cell that didn’t develop properly and instead became cancerous.  Risk factors and causes of neuroblastoma are unknown.   In Caden, the tumors started in his adrenal gland and spread throughout his entire skeleton, and one tumor pushed on his brain.

For the first few weeks after diagnosis, I silently begged to wake up from the nightmare.  Endless questions of why and how swirled in my mind and prayers, and always ended with me thinking that Caden–my treasured little boy that I had fed high quality foods, sheltered from violent TV, gave plenty of time to sleep, protected from hazardous things, and spent a lot of time playing outdoors–could not possibly have cancer.  I struggled to accept our new reality.  I walked by pictures hanging on the wall of Caden before he got sick.  The photo taken of him swinging in the park, barefoot and carefree, just after his second birthday with nothing but pure blue sky in the background would always catch me.

No way. Look at that happy, healthy child.  Was cancer growing in his body then?  I just can’t believe this has happened to him.  What would our lives be like if cancer never entered it?

Most of the time now, I no longer think these thoughts. It doesn’t seem possible to wake up from this nightmare anymore.  I have given up on wondering why or how.  I know I’ll never know the answers to either of those questions this side of heaven.  I accept that my first born was full of cancer at the tender age of three.

However, I do not accept that childhood cancer treatment feels harsh, barbaric, and cruel, using chemotherapies and radiation created for adult cancers generations ago.  I will not accept that some childhood cancers have very grim prognoses.  I refuse to accept that children are getting far less than adults in terms of cancer research funding, with only 4% of the National Cancer Institute’s budget and 1% of the American Cancer Society’s, and very few pharmaceutical companies developing drugs for pediatric cancers.  All of these things are completely unacceptable.  Cancer is the leading cause of death by disease in children in the United States of America.  I will never be okay with what Caden has gone through.  What I have accepted is that this is a part of his life, our lives.  I never want it to define who he is and I’m tired of it consuming my every thought.  I accept what we have been handed, but I don’t like it.  Acceptance feels much better than denial.

During the first few months following his diagnosis, I focused on getting through the ridiculously long and intense treatment, hearing the words that my son no longer had cancer, and continuing on with our lives.  Marked by the experience, but victorious, grateful, driven, and optimistic.  I’m sure it wouldn’t have been that simple, even if Caden had sailed through treatment and had a terrific response, but that’s not how it went.

Caden had insane amounts of treatment; children can tolerate much higher levels of therapy than adults can.  Yet despite these treatments, his disease was reluctant to leave.  Even as recently as one month ago, neuroblastoma cells can still be found in Caden’s bone marrow.  I must accept and co-exist with the anxiety this creates.  I have to swallow this figurative pill I never wanted to take, just has my son has physically had to do so very many times.

Yet, not a day goes by that I don’t think about hope. When I was a kid, childhood leukemia was basically a death sentence.  Today, that is no longer the case. Each day, new discoveries are being made.  Unfortunately, even today, some pediatric cancers are terminal upon diagnosis, and not every kid diagnosed with leukemia is cured either, way too far from it, but somewhere along the line, incremental advances have been made.  Gradually, more kids are surviving.  It hasn’t been a light-bulb, instantaneous discovery.  I have hope for Caden that maybe the tide is shifting and he can be swept up as one of the lucky ones, but I have to accept the reality of his prognosis in one hand and the hope that lies in the other. I accept I have very little power to change the outcome.  I must walk forward with faith in miracles.  In some ways, the fact that he is here with us now is one.  Ten years ago, that might not have been the case.

I accept that our future is full of uncertainty.  I accept that when someone talks about graduations, Christmas, birthdays, weddings, I will always wonder if he will be there.  I accept that his life is not, and will not be easy.  He faces challenges other kids don’t have to, but he is remarkable.  He doesn’t have to stand out like an Olympian or Nobel Prize winner to be exceptional.  I accept that I will probably never be comfortable with the word “survivor”.  I accept that a part of his childhood was stolen away, but he has had infinite love and attention poured over him.  I accept the lessons I have learned along the way.  I accept our lives as they are – good and bad, highs and lows, and everything in between.

In honor of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, we would like to highlight the following organizations that Pam Shrauger supports:

 

 

**Donating blood is another non-financial way to help children fighting cancer.

Pam Shrauger is a wife and mom of two in Bozeman, Montana.  Though her college degree is in meteorology, she manages a construction business with her husband and tries to check the weather when she can.  She also loves the outdoors and volunteers as a Bible Study Fellowship group leader.  Her young son’s battle with cancer has created a lifelong passion for supporting childhood cancer research.


A Fetal Diagnosis: 1 in 1200
September 15, 2017 In Faith & Encouragement Pregnancy & Birth Tender Topics No Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash

I turned up for my second, supposed to be last, ultrasound in my first pregnancy with some apprehension. Here in the UK, it’s often called the “big scan”, done at 20 weeks to look for anomalies in the baby. You don’t normally see your baby again until they’re born unless there’s a problem.

There was a problem.

The sonographer couldn’t find a stomach.

My husband realized this was a problem. I didn’t.

I had been given a leaflet before the scan that said if the baby hadn’t swallowed any amniotic fluid recently then the stomach might not be visible and they will call you back for a repeat scan. So I assumed that was all it was.

We weren’t able to find out the gender in our hospital but we’d seen quite clearly the baby had male anatomy and we had a quick chat about the fact we were having a boy. Then my husband went quiet. I thought he was disappointed and assumed he had wanted a girl. Actually, he had picked up the fact the scan had been abandoned by the technician (I thought they’d just decided they may as well wait until the next scan to check the rest) and that there were other markers that something was amiss. Shorter limbs than the pregnancy dates suggested. Thicker fluid around the neck.

We returned the following week to a room full of the top obstetric staff from the hospital.

I was still oblivious to the tension in the room.

Only after that scan, when the doctor started pulled together all the facts, did the dots join together in my mind and the picture became clear.

Our son was very unwell and probably had Down Syndrome.

We found out a few weeks later he definitely did have Down Syndrome, and with that my uncomplicated first-time pregnancy became high risk. I was scanned weekly and had to be transferred to the regional specialist hospital with a neonatal intensive care unit, where we knew our baby would spend his early weeks.

So what of the mothers who, instead of being excited in their first pregnancy, are facing news that they didn’t expect?

It’s a lonely place to receive a diagnosis during pregnancy. Everyone else was excited about prams, sharing labour stories and discussing their name choices; I felt like an outsider not wanting to talk about it, for fear of upsetting otherwise happy mothers-to-be. Everyone else said things like, “We don’t mind if we have a boy or a girl, so long as the baby is healthy!” We knew our little boy was not healthy but, didn’t really know how to bring that into a conversation without being a complete emotional drain on those around us. Others idly daydreamed about a happy future for their babies and the things their children might achieve; we worried about schooling, lifelong health problems, how our child would get financial support – and all this months before he was even born!

Surround yourself with positive people. You do not need that work colleague to tell you a horror story about your baby’s condition. It’s ok to say, “I don’t want to listen to this. If you don’t have something positive and uplifting, I don’t want to hear it”. You need friends who won’t help you wallow in self-pity. Friends who build you up, affirm your situation and point you to Christ in your uncertainty.

Understand that some people won’t know what to say. It took time to look past the reactions of some people, particularly family – tears, avoiding us, thoughtless comments – but as they got to know our baby these reactions faded into our memories. We remember the reactions and words, but what’s more important is how those people have welcomed Daniel into their lives with love and joy. Most people in your lives will be the same.

Remember God is in control and He is good. We need not fear the future. He gives us a spirit that “can laugh at the days to come” (Proverbs 31: 25). Even when I was admitted to hospital near the end of the pregnancy due to further complications, we knew God was working in our lives and that this little boy would fill our home with joy. His middle name is Isaac, meaning laughter, as we knew a deep joy that can only come from knowing God in the midst of trials.

My faith was my strength in a way that often only comes out when facing difficulties. It deepened as I learned to lean on God, praying constantly for our little one, lying in the bath every evening listening to worship music and praising Him. It was an intensity of faith I’ve never experienced before. He was with me. He was blessing me with a strength and a joy in the midst of what the world saw as sad and uncertain.

The truth is, pregnancy is a time of waiting for us all, no matter how straightforward the pregnancy is. Nine months of our body changing and the baby growing but no actual baby in our arms. We wait, expectantly. We trust God already knows our little ones and pray for them as they develop. Even if we know the gender and have a name picked out, we don’t know who this baby will be. Noisy, or quiet? Feisty or passive? Confident or a worrier?

I clung to the words in Lamentations 3:25-26:

“The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him,

to the one who seeks Him; it is good to wait quietly

for the salvation of the Lord.”

Allow yourself to be honest – to tell others how you feel and how your heart aches to know everything will be ok. The waiting is difficult. Meeting your child will be the greatest moment of your life. Before then, take it one day at a time and be kind to yourself.

Nicola Woods lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland with her husband and two boys, aged 2 and 5, with another baby on the way. Her eldest son has Down Syndrome. She is a qualified accountant but for now is a stay-at-home mother and serial coffee drinker. Nicola enjoys playing the piano, reading, and writing lists and blogs at www.happyisherhome.com is on Facebook and occasionally remembers to use her Instagram.


Say No to the Narwhal
September 13, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Soul Care for Moms 1 Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Your bestie is pregnant and you want to give her a gift that will say, “Hey. I’m with you in this, friend. Swollen ankles and all.” What can you get her?

    You could gift her with a witty onesie that will give your bestie’s newborn just the right hipster appeal for its one-month photo shoot. Or you may find yourself drawn to a cuddly and fuzzy stuffed-animal (preferably a narwhal or unicorn) as you envision your gift to be her baby’s favorite toy that it will sleep with well into their college years. Perhaps you will want to marinate your preggo friend in essential oils to keep her calm, energized and ready to push this baby out. She will surely need another vial of rosemary oil….

   But I say, “No”. I say “nope”  to the all of the above options. Your friend deserves better. So, here are 5 gifts that I believe will make YOU your pregnant bestie’s new favorite person. Ever.

  1. A CLEAN HOUSE. Organize four or five mutual friends to chip in and get your beautiful, childbearing friend, a 2-month cleaning service. Trust me. When she is staring at dust balls that are standing 2 feet tall as she holds her screaming infant, she will weep as she remembers your gift or genius. Nobody has time to keep the house clean with a newborn.
  2. SOME PEACE AND QUIET. If your pregnant bestie has other children, offer to take her older kiddos out for a fun day at the park, zoo, movie, or anywhere else that makes little people happy. Not only are you providing special bonding time for your friend with her new baby but you also are lavishing some much needed attention on older siblings who may feel like they have gone down on the food chain. Be sure to pick up the tab and bring her children home well fed and ready for an early bed. She will be forever grateful.
  3. THE DATE NIGHT IN. It’s important for your bestie to stay connected to her spouse BUT that’s hard to do when there is a tiny, little person always demanding her attention. A date night out is nearly impossible. So, provide your bestie with a date night in! Give her a box with a loaded Visa gift card, several take-out menus from local restaurants, a box of gourmet chocolates, candles to create some ambiance, and if you are really bold…a forgiving négligée that will remind her that she is not just a mama… she’s a hot mama.
  4. ADULT CONVERSATION. After her baby is born, offer to come to her place once a week for four weeks at a time most convenient for her. Tell her that you will provide the coffee, the snacks AND that you will stay long enough to watch her baby so she can shower. Be her listening ear as she navigates through motherhood and resist the urge of offering too much advice. Be sure she knows that she should not, under any circumstance, tidy her home before you arrive. While you are there, do the dishes.
  5. WORDS THAT WILL AFFIRM. Listen, motherhood brings on a whole new level of worry that no one is ever prepared for. Chances are, at some point, your precious pregnant friend will doubt her competence as a mother, fear for her child’s future, and generally feel unequipped to successfully walk through this new season in her life. Write her a letter (or several) that will affirm her as the strong and capable person she is. When she is feeling low, she can whip out her notes from you to regain her confidence once again. Knowing that you believe in her and are cheering her on just might be the lifeline that she will need one day. Don’t underestimate the power of your words. Validation is rare in the land of Mamahood but you can be the voice that reminds her that she is seen and is appreciated.

 If you really want to get that witty onesie for your pregnant bestie, go ahead. Just remember, that whatever you give your friend, be sure that she has your consistent encouragement and time. Motherhood gets lonely. We forget that. Your pregnant bestie needs her friends to remind her that it takes a village to raise a child…and her village is behind her.

Noelle is a researcher, speaker, and podcaster. She is the podcast producer/host for Friending Podcast and is a regular co-host for the podcast, Slices of Life. She lives in North Jersey with her hot husband and two wild children. She is a big fan of Constant Comment Tea, the Oscars, and Lesley Knope.

Noelle is passionate about helping women empower women through the art of friendship.

For more random facts on Noelle you can click here or stalk her on Instagram.


The Power of Presence: A Cancer Story
September 11, 2017 In Childhood Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

Photo by Ryan Booth on Unsplash

I sat on an unfamiliar bench under a sky turning dark. I was surrounded by trees I didn’t know. On my right loomed a massive hospital whose halls I never conceived needing to walk. I sat, choking on the words. They stuck in my throat; maybe if I didn’t say them it all wouldn’t be true. I forced them out anyhow.

“I just don’t want her to die.”

A painfully long–yet unsettlingly quick–few days later, a diagnosis entered our lives, forever to be seared into our daughter’s future. Stage IV, high-risk neuroblastoma. Cancer. Our precious, longed-for and adored 14 month old daughter Jade had a destructive beast growing inside her, spreading and overtaking her healthy body. It began in her left adrenal gland, spiraling into a large tumor that curled around her aorta. It hungrily took up residence in her large bones and orbital bones. Unsatisfied, it infiltrated her bone marrow. Her doctors wouldn’t give us statistics, but I couldn’t stop myself from looking them up. At the state she was diagnosed in, Jade had a 30 percent chance of surviving five or more years. All of the things I had hoped and prayed for her, and things I didn’t even know I had hoped for her, came falling down around us, shattering as they hit rock bottom with me as we learned about her treatment plan and what it would do to Jade’s body. Not just throughout her treatment, but also what it could do long term.

How do we, as parents, face the thought of only another five years with our babies being a gift? Throughout Jade’s 14 month treatment, I discovered that some days were faced head-on. We walked into those days with strength and confidence that we were all, Jade included, going to make it through this. Some days I only made it through the day five minutes at a time. If I could just do the next five minutes with Jade, then I could think about the next five, but no further. Cancer is like this: one day you feel like it can be beat and the next you are wondering if the treatment is worse than the disease your child is fighting. The choices a “cancer parent” faces are horrible vs. horrendous.  It does something unexplainably cruel to a parent’s psyche to have to agree to put poison through your child’s veins and irradiate their body in the hopes that it will keep them alive. It is a new type of torture watching the child you swore to protect at all costs, in deep pain and suffering knowing you signed the papers that consented to the treatment that is putting them in such pain.  And yet, it is all done because you swore to love, protect and save them at all costs.  There were so many moments when I wanted so desperately to steal away the suffering Jade was experiencing.  I would have taken it, tenfold, if only I could relieve her of it.

I was challenged repeatedly to learn so many things as a cancer patient’s parent. I learned how intense the caregiver’s role is. I learned how to care for Jade’s central line which was used for chemotherapy, blood draws, IV antibiotics and anesthesia. I learned how to care for and change the dressing, which must be kept sterile, that covered the central line entrance area on her chest. I learned how to manage feedings through her ng tube and how to replace her ng tube, which is a temporary feeding tube that Jade had for well over a year because she felt too sick to eat for much of the time. I often felt as if eating became foreign and uninteresting to her. Sometimes it seemed as if I was halfway towards earning my own nursing degree by the time Jade was through treatment.

I understood so much necessary medical terminology during Jade’s treatment, but discovered this was some of the least valuable information that I gained from being her primary caregiver. I learned of the vast wealth of power and strength the human body and soul have to experience pain and suffering, yet persevere through it. I was given a chance to see into my daughter’s emerging personality and glimpse the fighting spirit within her that said, “I will not die.” One amazing quality that Jade’s doctors and nurses would point out, was her determination to smile and enjoy at least five minutes of each day. There were very few days during Jade’s time at the hospital, when she would be in the thick of treatment and at her lowest, that she would not get out of bed to color, explore or play for at least a short while. I believe this spark within Jade is what kept her moving forward and kept her alive.

I also experienced tremendous personal growth. Facing this devastation made me look at God, full on, and decide where I chose to stand with Him. My choice was to never ask why; where could that possibly get me? My choice was not to be angry and blame God. I chose to dig deep, to discover what could it possibly mean to have joy despite being in your lowest state. My husband and I, together with our family, friends and community that rallied around us, prayed for healing; immediate and miraculous healing. We pleaded with God to give Jade longevity of life, strength and perseverance. Along the way though I discovered that for me, the miracle wasn’t that Jade was instantly healed, it was that I allowed God to miraculously change my heart in the most difficult time I have ever faced. I allowed Him to take something ugly and turn it into beautiful.

This beauty was fully putting all my faith & trust in the ultimate giver of love, God. It was experiencing and living out joy in the midst of adversity and pain. It was community rallying around our family as we were weak and hurting.  There were many days I felt lonely and isolated but I can see now how agape love was demonstrated as people continually showed up to stand with us through the entire war. This is the power of presence. There is nothing that contends with the power of someone just being there for another in the midst of suffering. Adversity will come, but when we invite God and others into our pain, it is then that true love is expressed and experienced.

 

In honor of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, we would like to highlight the following organizations that Nicole Marr supports:

 

Nicole Marr lives in northwest Montana with her husband and three children. She works as a hair stylist by day and amateur blogger by night. You can find her sharing about life with honesty and authenticity at neongreylife.


Creativity in the Small Spaces (Guest Post)
September 8, 2017 In Creativity Soul Care for Moms 1 Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

Today, we are sharing an excerpt of a guest post Kindred Mom founder Emily Allen is sharing over on Crystal Stine’s blog. Please visit there to read the complete post!

It all happens in the cracks between meal-making and mess-cleaning. It happens as little ones circle my legs and food simmers on the stove, me scribbling notes and thoughts to come back to later when the kids have gone to bed. It happens in waiting areas, on park benches, and in the early morning or late night hours at home. It happens in pajamas, with wild hair and no makeup. It happens between nursing babies, sweeping, and stops at the grocery store.

This is my creative life, squeezed into the small spaces available to me.

For years, I struggled to embrace the tension between my everyday responsibilities and the dreams of my heart. Where I wanted things to mesh, like a hand-in-glove, reality looked more like sparks of iron against iron. I wanted more time and fewer roadblocks. I wanted a checklist to follow that would supply me with the courage I lacked. I wanted the landscape of life to look more organized: a tidy calendar, a mess-free house, and predictable, obedient children that never turned my day upside-down–all things I thought I needed in order to unfurl my full creative potential. I wanted a clear direction and ideas that were guaranteed to succeed.

I didn’t know that I had to first start the work, and figure some things out as I went–taking little steps (and sometimes leaps) of faith along the way.

I erroneously thought successful people created their brilliant works in great swaths of readily available time, with little resistance, surrounded by tranquil scenery. I thought I was the only one who wrestled my doubts and wrangled my schedule on a daily basis to wring out a few hours of clarity in a week.

What I found is that other creative people are just like me.

Read the rest of this essay on Crystal Stine’s blog…

 

 Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and podcast and is passionate about helping moms flourish in motherhood. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at lightandloveliness.com. She invites you to connect with the Kindred Mom community on Instagram or Facebook.


The Exact Moment of Motherhood
September 6, 2017 In Childhood Pregnancy & Birth No Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

Photo by Martin Pedersen on Unsplash

“There’s a pink line!” I called out through the closed bathroom door.  “One or two!?” my friend Katie shouted.  “Two.”  Dazed, I went to the door and opened it, feeling numb.  This was surreal….bizarre.

I fought through the haze of exhaustion in my mind, trying to remember the past few months.

When had I even seen my husband? 

I had limped, then crawled, to finish the spring semester, straining under the weight of a load and a half of courses while working.  I had pulled all-nighters and periodically spent my last dime on espresso.

I could barely take care of myself.  How could I be having a baby?

Now it was summer.  I wanted to lose the weight that had been piling on and attaching itself to my usually-slender frame.  I wanted to relax with friends and lie by the pool and be carefree and nonchalant again and get my life back.

I did not want to be pregnant.

It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to be pregnant then.  I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be pregnant ever.  My husband, Dave, and I hadn’t ever really talked about it.  We had been having too much fun and were too preoccupied with trying to figure out how to be grownups.

At home the next night, I unceremoniously presented him with a gift bag.  He pulled out the tissue paper to find the pregnancy test.  I don’t remember what he said, only that he held me close for the next two and a half hours in our tiny dark living room as I heaved with sobs that came from the depths of my soul.

As the baby in my family, I had not grown up around babies.  I wasn’t a teenager who liked to babysit.  It was a world that I knew nothing about.  I only had one friend who had become pregnant so far, and she lived states away. In those early months, seeing my enlarging abdomen and feeling those first flutters of life, I felt that an alien life form was taking over my body.  I had not invited it in.  Where had it come from? I watched in horror as my body swelled and ballooned out of control.  I had to turn away when I woke up one morning and saw that stretch marks had violently marred my belly, leaving me looking as if I had been clawed by a wild beast.  No more bikinis.  I was only 23.

I hadn’t had much time to wear them at all, I thought.

The delivery was scary.  My first major surgery was a C-section.  The first few days at home were awkward and uncomfortable.  Yet slowly I learned to sift through the myriad of advice that was constantly coming at us. I learned to shut out all of the voices clamoring for my attention and to choose what worked for us.  I made terrible mistakes, but I learned to pick myself up and keep trying.  I learned that my baby had a reason for every cry, and I learned what each one meant.

I don’t know the exact moment when I truly became a mother.  Maybe it was one of those times toward the end of my pregnancy when I felt the baby move and shock and dread were replaced momentarily by a flicker of hope, a glimmer of joy, and a surge of expectancy.

Maybe it was when I sat in the wheelchair, looking out through the big glass sliding door of the hospital on that glorious sunny day with little bits of snow flying about, watching my husband trying to wrestle the car seat into the back of his sports car so we could drive the baby home.  (I remember thinking, “He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing and neither do I, but my God, I would follow that man anywhere.”)

Maybe it was on the walks, the miles and hours of walks up and down the sun-dappled, tree-lined streets, when I would look down at the stroller and see the clouds reflected in her eyes. Or one of the cozy summer mornings at home, snuggling her close in a blanket once life had really slowed down.

Perhaps it was even years later, when my husband again held me while I sobbed in his arms for hours on our same white couch in our same tiny darkened living room—although this time I was sobbing after putting her to bed and kissing her goodnight on the top of her sweet head. This time I sobbed while asking myself, how could I ever have not wanted her?

I have cried a lot over the years, in some seasons more than others. Now she is twelve and all summer I have cried a lot.  I let my husband sleep, and late at night I curl up into a ball on top of the closed toilet lid under the harsh fluorescent bathroom light and I cry. It’s a ragged cry that fights its way up from someplace deep inside. At the beginning of the summer I snapped a photo of her one evening at the park.  She is stretched out face down on a wooden step next to the water, gazing into its depths while the last rays of sunlight play across the top of the river and pick up the blonde highlights in her hair. That night after she went to bed, I clutched that photo to my chest and sobbed.  I did the math.  She is twelve. Six more years of having her in my house.  Too fast. It goes too fast. The realization rips at my soul.

Twelve is such a tender age.  She loves animals.  Last week we drove up the mountain to the animal shelter to visit and walk the dogs.  As the car wound around the roads that were sprinkled with sunlight (it always seems to me that it is sunny when she is nearby), she shared with me about something that had happened recently.  She was at a sleepover when her friend started gushing about the big birthday party, the party of the summer, and how much fun it had been.  The friend said, “You were there, right?” and my daughter had to explain that she hadn’t been, that she wasn’t invited.  “Mom, how could she not even know that I wasn’t there?” she asked.  I said something soothing and the conversation moved on.  But that night found me once again huddled on top of the toilet hunched over sobbing.  In all of my awkward growing up years, I don’t think I ever cried over not being invited to a party.  But I cry for her.  For all of the hurt that I can’t heal for her, and for how hard and confusing and messy this life really is.

I look back on the naïve, immature 23-year-old girl that I was once.  I think that girl somehow knew how motherhood would stretch her heart and cause it to swell and heave and to scar beautifully again and again.  Maybe that is why I thought then that I never wanted to be a mother.  Maybe that’s how I know that I already was one.  

Helen Gentry writes and blogs from her mountain home in North Carolina where she lives with her daughter, husband and two rescue dogs. Passionate about helping women to reach their full potential, Helen is currently a full-time graduate student studying to become a counselor and a coach.  When she is not writing, doing homework or parenting, she can be found dabbling in trail running, hiking, photography, and farm-to-table cooking.  She drops everything for a mountain sunset or a good cup of coffee.


A Flourishing Life (Pediatric Cancer Awareness)
September 4, 2017 In Childhood Tender Topics 1 Comment

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

 

In the line that meandered through the displays of deep velvets and the sparkle of sequins sown to necklines, through tables piled with holiday décor now a little less festive with Christmas past, I stood, hands full.  Turning the items this way and that, considering, shifting my weight from one foot to another, wondering if I really needed this cheery garland now half off, or the ornament and the sweater meant to be paired with a party dress.  But such great deals, hard to resist.

At some point I looked up, my eyes swept the scene before me and the frenzy of the after-Christmas sale seemed to hush.  Had I not been here before?  Had I not been here hundreds of times before?  My favorite store, compelling not just for what one could purchase, but also for the experience of it, just the sheer delight of walking into its beautiful midst.  Colors and textures, patterns and light all satiating just a bit of my hunger for beauty.  Somehow the unspoken draw that this place could help me set the world a little right, enable me to carve out a space restful and fair.

My heart startled, a gag constricting my throat, an unconscious shake of the head, trying to clear the bafflement, the tilting sense of disorientation.  The contrast suddenly slicing, a rogue waving knocking me off axis.  How?  How can these two worlds lay side by side?  No more than a mile up the road dwells a place I had known about for years, but never before known. The Children’s Hospital sat on a hill on the way to my friend’s house, on the way to a lovely park along the lake, to a plant nursery I liked to peruse.  It was a landmark I passed by, never a destination.

With mechanical motion I had responded to the doctor’s instructions: go to the Emergency Room at the Children’s Hospital, park in Lot 4, she needs a transfusion immediately.  We met there, we four, my husband and two little girls, quiet, tears brimming when my eyes met his, not knowing what dark thread had just pierced our lives.  “Does she have access?” the nurse asked.  “What?” my mind fumbled trying to make sense of her question.  Seeing my confused look she blurted, “Does she have cancer?” “What? NO!” I exclaimed, simultaneously thinking it an absurd idea and sinking terror cutting into my heart, wondering if such a thing could possibly be true.

Now the sight of bald heads and feeding tubes taped to cheeks, commonplace, though still jarring.  One evening in the hospital I rounded the corner, horror sweeping me, heat up the back of my neck, a mom and dad, one pushing the stroller, the other the IV pole with the bag holding some garish red fluid, bright yellow of the Hazardous Drug sticker draped across.  My eyes followed the line from IV pole down to a wee baby.

“What is this place?” I wanted to scream.  Every instinct in me demanded I run, flee, be rid of this terror, get away, get out, don’t look back.  What parent purposefully allows poison to seep into the veins of their child, allows the perfect soft flesh of their child’s chest to be punctured with a port, with a double-lumen Hickman catheter, with access?  We were told that a beast we could not perceive with our eyes was threatening to eat away the lives of our children.  So time after time we signed consent, we nodded our heads and said yes to horrors our child must bear, while we could only look on, desperate for some means of transaction that would allow us to take away this burden and heap it upon ourselves.

It would merely be the first of many holidays spent locked away behind those doors.   The whole earth ebbing and flowing, moving through one season into another, anticipation and preparation for countless occasions, birthday parties and Thanksgiving turkeys, spring break and family camping trips.  And we, in an eddy, an endless cycle of blood draws and labs, rounds of chemo and scans, languishing while all the world continues on unblinking, we the unseen.

But my heart can never un-see what it has witnessed.  I will never look at the windows of that building the same.  Just mere glass reflecting sunlight, glowing with the coming of night, behind which are lives engaged in incomprehensible battles, hopes strained so taut, wailing for a child gone still.

I still love to go to Anthropologie to run my hands along the rich texture of a beautiful sweater and take in the sight of a new arrangement of glasses in colorful array.  But it is bittersweet.  The barb drags sharp across my tender scarred flesh, a wan smile on my lips remembering how she loved to methodically smell each lotion and perfume, blue eyes glancing up at me bright with the questioning, could she try just this one?

The entirety of her life only spanned six years.  From the first moment I heard the word “leukemia,” linked with my 21-month old girl, I could sense the possibility of death ever standing in the periphery, its shadow ever threatening.  I remembered the words of a mother whose son had autism; she had to learn to dream different dreams for her child.  From her first two-year-old tantrum there in the hallway of the Oncology Unit, as she stood stalwart, cheeks flushed, determined not to put away the little bike she had just been riding, I knew I had a choice.  This was not the life I would have ever chosen for my child, but this was the life she had been handed and we were going to do everything we could to make it a life of flourishing, a life expectant.

I chose to treat her as a child with a future, to hold the line and set limits when it was so tempting to relent, to give into her demands, feeling sorry for this little bald headed girl with the lines looping out her shirt up to the IV pole.  I crafted a schedule right smack in the middle of that strange hospital life.  She dressed in happy bright outfits rather than succumbing to endless pajamas; a declaration that she would not be defined by sickness.  We danced to music and painted glitter on nails, she wore tutus and crowns, little plastic vampire teeth and a sparkling cape or butterfly wings as she sped through the halls on her bike, I careening along in tow, desperate to keep the IV pole upright.

Though her life was cut brutally short, hers was a life brimming with joy and giddy delight.  She learned to do the hard things: the pierce of another needle puncturing her skin, countless icky medicines throughout the day, to lie ever so still as her body passed through the CT machine.  She was a girl who loved to laugh, made fast friends with all the staff, would color anything a hundred colors of the rainbow.  In her last days, as she was home on hospice, she named herself “Sapphire Rainbow Sparkle Jewel.”  I can think of no better name to perfectly sum her up.  By God’s profound grace, my sweet girl’s life was not marked primarily by suffering, rather, by a flourishing within it.

 

In honor of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, we would like to highlight the following organizations that Jai Anderson supports:

 

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Jai Anderson is the mother of two girls and is recently divorced following the death of her younger daughter to cancer in 2016.  She is banking on God’s promise of the redemption of all her sorrows and harkening God’s call to be expectant, to be on the lookout for the abundance He will bring.  It is her joy as a social worker to support families in parenting and individuals through counseling in a small town in Montana. She blogs at www.ConglomerationofJoy.com


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